


Are We a Couple?

by zweebie



Series: gomensficweek2019 ficlets [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fake Dating, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, fake dating au, gomensficweek2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zweebie/pseuds/zweebie
Summary: “Are we a couple?” Aziraphale asks, because he thinks he would know if they were, but it’s best to be sure in situations like this.“Oh, no,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “Definitely not.”“Of course not.”“Of course not.”But wouldn't it be easier not to correct people? To pretend, just for a while?(For gomensficweek2019 Day 2: Fake Dating)





	Are We a Couple?

It’s not meant to be a capital- _ t thing,  _ not at first. Of course not, because Aziraphale and Crowley don’t do capital- _ t-Things.  _ They do partnership and business arrangements (and tiny little moments where it’s maybe something  _ more,  _ please  _ god  _ let it be something more—) and then they leave it at that, still slightly wanting, slightly unsatisfied.

It starts with a card from Anathema.  _ To the Mr. Fells,  _ it says at the top, followed by their address. Aziraphale squints at it, then looks at Crowley. “Now, whatever can that mean?” he asks, half-innocently.

“I may be wrong, but it seems,” Crowley says, eyebrow raised, “that she thinks we’re a couple.”

“Are we a couple?” Aziraphale asks, because he thinks he would know if they were, but it’s best to be sure in situations like this.

“Oh, no,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “Definitely not.”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not.”

Next, it’s a saleswoman in a shop.

“Oh, just perfect,” Aziraphale says, clapping as she shows them to the winter jackets..

The woman, pressed and beige and petite, flashes them both a bright smile. “No problem. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask!” she chirps. Then, “I just want to say, by the way, that you two make such an adorable couple.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth and closes it. “I—thank you,” he manages.

“When were you two married?”

“Just a couple of years ago,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale spins. He hadn’t even realized Crowley had followed them there.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale protests, but the saleswoman interrupts. 

“Well, you’re just too cute!” She’s very bubbly, a little  _ too  _ bubbly for Aziraphale’s taste. “Anyway, good luck finding your jackets!”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies, smiling tightly.

“What the he—what in God’s name was that?” Aziraphale cries as they climb into the Bentley.   


“What was what?” 

“Telling her we were married. You are ridiculous.” Absolutely ridiculous! As if they would even, ever, do such a thing.  _ Marry.  _

“Well, I just thought it would be easier, y’know, then correcting them every time.”

_ “ _ Easier _ ?”  _

As if pretending to be a couple is  _ easier.  _ Aziraphale doesn’t even ever fully agree to it—and they never go out of their way to pretend they’re a couple. That’s the most jarring thing. That everyone just sees it, and assumes it. Does it really seem so much like they’re in love.

Of course, Aziraphale thought, once, maybe—had seen the looks Crowley gave him, had spent centuries,  _ millenia  _ trying to understand how he felt—but it was too late for that now. Too late.

“Yeah, that’s all it is.” Crowley laughs. “And it’s funny, you have to admit.”

“ _ Funny?” _

“Pretending to be a couple. It’s very funny.”

And Aziraphale doesn’t even know what to say to that.

He does start to get the appeal, though, as things go on. The appeal of being able to take Crowley’s hand in public, of behind able to walk around with Crowley’s arm slung casually over his shoulder. To not have to glance away when Crowley catches him staring. 

And so the days go by. They wander through museums, meander through parks, eat at the Ritz too many times to count. Things are peaceful and tumultous and joyful and aching and good. They go to Adam’s twelfth birthday party, and Anathema tells them, like the lady in the shop, that they’re adorable. Pepper asks them if they make children. Aziraphale coughs and Crowley laughs out loud. Their cottage in South Downs is just perfect, and Aziraphale sets up a new bookshop, with a little section in the corner full of Adam’s recommendations. Aziraphale thinks they’re just awful, but there is something charming about the little adventure novels.

At Christmas, they go to Anathema and Newt’s place again. Adam and the Them can’t make it, since their parents never did quite figure out how two grown men, a witchy-looking woman and a computer engineer suddenly because friends with their children, but at least part of their family is together.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it, dear?” Aziraphale asks after dinner, once Anathema and Newt are tidying up (Aziraphale had insisted on helping, but Anathema physically ushered him out, saying that he’d done enough to help her and the world already). He and Crowley settle themselves down on the sofa.

“Please—” Crowley says, shutting his eyes for a moment.

“Please what?” Aziraphale asks, softening.

“Don’t—no, it’s ridiculous.”

“Tell me, dear. I wouldn’t want to be upsetting you.”

Crowley winces. “Don’t call me dear, I’m sorry, I—I can’t.”

“But—this was your idea, whatever do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t, okay? Seeing you every day, being with you, it’s already bad enough and…” he seems to try and stop himself, but the words keep pouring out, “and I don’t know what I thought, that I thought it would be better if I could pretend, just for a moment—but  _ satan  _ it’s so much worse, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Aziraphale stares at him in awe for a moment, because if this means what Aziraphale thinks, then it means  _ so much.  _ “What do you mean, Crowley?”

“Oh, don’t you know?” Crowley asks, and there’s such pain in his face. 

“Know what, de—” Aziraphale stops himself.

“I love you! God—Aziraphale, of course I love you! And I don’t know how damn thick you can possibly be not to realize!”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale says.

“What, angel?” Crowley bursts out, and his voice is harsher than Aziraphale’s heard it before. Aziraphale knows it’s just a front, though. Aziraphale knows  _ him. _

“Crowley, I thought I ruined it. I thought I ended it. In nineteen-sixty-three.”

“Well, maybe—maybe you ended it for you, but not for me. God. Satan. Fuck. I’m going to go.”

“Wait—” Aziraphale says, voice barely more than a whisper, and he stands, grabbing Crowley’s hand before he can run off.

“What is it no—” 

Aziraphale reaches for the collar of Crowley’s jacket and pulls him in, their lips together. Quickly, desperately. He’s not letting Crowley get away this time.

And the kiss—oh, the kiss. Aziraphale has read poetry, seen people compare kisses to heaven. This kiss is not heaven. Far from it. It’s warm and comfortable and exciting and new and good, so good. When Aziraphale pulls away, Crowley’s eyes take a moment to open and they’re both breathless.

“Oh,” Crowley breathes.

“Well, I guess you two didn’t miss us so much after all,” Newt says as he and Anathema walk in.

Crowley grins. Aziraphale smiles, a little, too.  _ Oh. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a comment/kudos if you liked it!


End file.
